Jim Spurling, Fisherman - or Making Good

Albert Walter Tolman

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• Publié par: thowyung
• Publié le: 01 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 143
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg eBook, Jim Spurling, Fisherman, by Albert Walter Tolman This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Jim Spurling, Fisherman or Making Good Author: Albert Walter Tolman Release Date: September 8, 2008 [eBook #26560] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN*** E-text prepared by Bruce Albrecht, Verity White, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) Transcriber's note: Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN [See page 279 HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF TOWARD THE ROCK TO WHICH HIS FATHER WAS FASTENED JIM SPURLING FISHERMAN or Making Good BY ALBERT W. TOLMAN ILLUSTRATED HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America TO MY BOYS ALBERT AND EDWARD CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. XXIII. XXIV. SMASHED UP A FRESH START TARPAULIN ISLAND MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS GETTING READY TRAWLING FOR HAKE SHORTS AND COUNTERS SALT-WATER GIPSIES FISTS AND FIREWORKS REBELLION IN CAMP TURN OF TIDE PULLING TOGETHER FOG-BOUND SWORDFISHING MIDSUMMER DAYS A LOST ALUMNUS BLOWN OFF BUOY OR BREAKER ON THE WHISTLER SQUARING AN ACCOUNT OLD FRIENDS PERCY SCORES WHITTINGTON GRIT CROSSING THE TAPE 1 18 29 41 53 66 78 90 102 114 128 138 150 162 174 186 198 208 221 233 243 255 269 283 ILLUSTRATIONS HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF TOWARD Frontispiece THE ROCK TO WHICH HIS FATHER WAS FASTENED THE CAMP AT SPROWL'S COVE Facing p. 56 LEANING AGAINST THE MAST-HOOP THAT ENCIRCLED HIS WAIST, HE LIFTED THE LONG LANCE AND POISED IT FOR THE " 166 BLOW KNEES BRACED TIGHTLY AGAINST THE SIDES OF THE STERN, HANDS LOCKED ROUND THE STOUT BUTT OF THE LANCE, HE " 172 FOILED RUSH AFTER RUSH OF THE BLACK-FINNED, WHITEBELLIED PIRATES THEY STOOD CLOSE TOGETHER ON THE CIRCULAR TOP, " 222 HOLDING ON TO THE CROSSED BAILS, WAIST-HIGH "WE NEED THAT SLOOP AND WE'RE GOING TO HAVE HER!" " 252 [Pg 1] [Pg 1] JIM SPURLING FISHERMAN I SMASHED UP "Here comes J. P. Whittington, Junior, Esquire, in his new Norman! Some speed—what?" The three Graffam Academy seniors, Jim Spurling, Roger Lane, and Winthrop Stevens, who were sitting on the low, wooden fence before the campus, earnestly discussing the one thing that had engrossed their minds for the past two weeks, stopped talking and leaned forward. On the broad, elm-lined street beyond the Mall suddenly appeared a cloud of dust, out of which shot a gray automobile. Its high speed soon brought it to the academy grounds, and it came to an abrupt stop before the fence. "Pile in, fellows!" shouted the driver, a bareheaded youth in white flannels, "and I'll take you on a little spin." [Pg 2] He was a slim, sallow lad of seventeen, with a straw-colored pompadour crowning his freckled forehead. The sleeves of his outing shirt were rolled up above his elbows, revealing his bony, sunburnt arms. He wore a gay red tie, and a tennis blazer, striped black and white, lay on the seat beside him. "No, thanks, Percy," replied Lane. "Sorry we can't go; but we're too busy." Spurling and Stevens nodded as Whittington's light-blue eyes traveled inquiringly from one to the other. "Ah, come on!" he invited. "Be sports! Let's celebrate the end of the course. Just to show how good I feel, I'm going to scorch a three-mile hole through the atmosphere between here and Mount Barlow faster than it was ever done before. Tumble aboard and help hold this barouche down on the pike while I burn the top off it for the last time." Pulling out a book of tissue wrappers and a sack of tobacco, he began to roll a cigarette with twitching, yellowed fingers. "Anybody got a match? No? Then I'll have to dig one up myself." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a lucifer. Soon he was inhaling the smoke and talking rapidly. "I'm so glad this is my last week here I feel like kicking my head off. Once I shake the dust of this dump off my tires, you can bet you'll never catch me here again. Say, do you know what this Main Street reminds me of? An avenue in Metairie Cemetery in New Orleans, with a row of white tombs on each side. I saw it last Christmas. They bury 'em aboveground there, too. The Rubes in this burg are just as dead, only they don't know it." [Pg 3] Drawing a final, long, luxurious whiff, he tossed the half-smoked cigarette away. "Well, so long! My dad's coming on the five-ten to see his only son graduate cum laude. And me loaded down with conditions a truck-horse couldn't haul! Wouldn't that jar you? Guess I'll have to do my road-burning before he gets here. Hold a watch on me, will you? I'm out for the record." "Careful, or you'll get pinched for over-speeding," cautioned Stevens. Whittington spat contemptuously. "Pinch your grandmother!" he jeered. "I've been pinched too many times to mind a little thing like that." Off darted the gray car. The three gazed after it in silence. Then Spurling spoke. "Must seem rather pleasant to have a bank-account you can't touch the bottom of, mustn't it? They say his father's all sorts of a millionaire. Hope he doesn't get smashed up or run over somebody." "He's a good-natured fool," commented Lane. "But you can't help liking him, after all. Now let's get back to business." It was Commencement week in mid-June at the old country academy nestled among the New England hills. The lawns before the substantial white houses were emerald with the fresh, unrivaled green of spring. Fragrant lilacs sweetened the soft air. The walks under the thick-leafed elms were thronged with talking, laughing groups. Bright-colored dresses dotted the campus before the dingy brick buildings. Tennis-courts and ball-field were alive with active figures. A few days more and students and strangers would be gone, and the old town would sink into the drowsy quiet of the long summer vacation. Lounging on the notched, whittled fence, Lane, Spurling, and Stevens fell once more into earnest conversation. [Pg 4] Spurling came from a Maine coast town. He was nineteen, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned, deliberate in speech and movements. Physically very strong, he had caught on the academy ball team and played guard in